


Twice Isn't Enough For You

by stileskolpath



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Lydia Martin, BAMF Stiles, Derek and Stiles are Mates, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Two Shot, but keep reading!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stileskolpath/pseuds/stileskolpath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something smells... off in Beacon Hills.</p>
<p>And that thing is Peter Hale.</p>
<p>And Stiles is kind of tired of his shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twice Isn't Enough For You

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I started this story a few days ago based on this post here (http://artthingy.tumblr.com/post/58737233006/thanks-for-all-great-prompts-im-done-for-today), and wasn’t really sure where to go with it. 
> 
> Then I had an epiphany, but the events of this weekend kept me from finishing it like I wanted to. So, long story short, here it is. It also kind of morphed from the original premise, but whatevs.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -SK

Stiles watched in horror as Peter lunged at Scott, claws outstretched, making a beeline for his throat.

He dodged, thankfully, barely getting clipped by Peter’s thumb, and whirled away. Once far enough back, the alpha snarled, and let his own wolf take over, his eyes flashing from their normal brown into red.

"Well, Scott, it looks like it is down to you and me. Alpha against Alpha."

Scott eyed him warily, slightly confused. Peter wasn’t an alpha anymore, but he seemed to still think he was. The full intensity of his psychosis was beginning to show itself. Stiles knew it was there, had known for a while, peaking through the cracks when the elder Hale had told the story of Derek and Paige.

Essentially, he was a nut-job. A werewolf nut-job, with a massive hard-on for power. Any kind of power, really. That was what was so terrifying. Stiles really wanted to do something, but he stood there just kind of frozen in place, halfway down the spiral staircase at the corner of the loft, a position, coincidentally, that Peter himself usually occupied, eavesdropping on the goings-on of the loft.

He watched the ex-alpha flex his claws, nails clacking together menacingly as they moved and scraped past each other. Stiles cringed at the sound.

"He’s not alone." The familiar female voice came from behind Peter, and he whirled around to find it’s source. He found Allison staring back at him, sighting down the arrow already nocked on her compound bow. His eyes went slightly wide. Stiles knew an oh shit face when he saw one. Flanking her on the left was Isaac, fully wolfed-out, eyes glowing yellow with anger. On her right was Lydia, who was filing her fingernails with a large, curved hunting knife. She regarded Peter as one might an annoying fly, barely even sparing a glance. He growled, turning his attention back to Scott. He knew that Allison wouldn’t kill him unless Scott ordered it. She was part of his pack, after all.

"So is this what’s happening then? You’re throwing your pitiful little human pack up against me instead of fighting yourself?" An evil smile slinked across Peter’s face as he eyed the young alpha. "No matter, I will take them from you, slowly, intimately, right before I take your power back."

Scott growled low in his throat. Stiles knew that he was about to attack. Even in wolf-mode, Stiles could read his best friend like a book. And whether or not Scott was a true alpha, Peter was a cunning, deceitful asshole consistently. Stiles knew that Scott would not fare well in this fight. He wanted desperately to do something, anything, to hold Scott back until the right time without risking his best friend or the rest of his pack. As good as they all were together, Peter would find away to draw them apart and destroy each and every one, just like he said he would. Stiles knew it. He felt it. His senses screamed it at him.

"Now, the question remains," Peter growled menacingly, "With whom do I start?" His grammar was flawless, Stiles couldn’t help but notice. The evil werewolf threw a glance over his shoulder at Allison. "The ex? Ooh, that would be good. She could die in your arms." He said almost wistfully. Isaac snarled in response. Peter’s ice-blue eyes shifted to consider him next. "Oh, I forgot about your boyfriend, Scott. I could start by tearing his throat out and placing it in your hands. That would be a nice touch." He chuckled darkly Stiles couldn’t help but notice how he ignored Lydia completely before turning back around and leveling a squinted glare at him. Shit. Stiles instinctively looked behind himself, hoping that somebody was standing there to hide behind.

"Or I could just start with your little bromance there…" He gestured at Stiles behind Scott’s head with a pointed claw. "That would be really fun. I could turn him, and let you linger long enough to see his eyes change color. Then, when everything was beginning to heal, only then would I kill him.” Peter’s features seemed to perk up in glee at the prospect. He advanced slightly. “I think I’ll start there…"

Without a warning, and nary a sound, something heavy vaulted past Stiles from behind him, grazing his shoulder and rushing the air in his ears before hitting the ground and rolling, landing crouched next to Scott.

Derek looked up and roared, the veins on his neck popping visibly as the sound ripped from his throat. It made Peter cringe, if only slightly. “You’ll never get near him,” he snarled, teeth barred as he stood up, words quiet in a deadly whisper. Stiles felt his heart tighten warmly in his chest with either pride or affection. He couldn’t really tell. He would need to talk to Derek after all was said and done.

"Fine, have it your way." Peter lunged again, making for Derek instead of Stiles. The spark of affection in his chest was replaced instantly by the dark, suffocating panic that usually preceded a panic attack. Derek managed to block both of his claws as Peter tried to swing them in succession, each impact resounding with a dull, but powerful thuds. Derek’s veins throbbed in his forearms as he held of each attack. Peter roared into his face, and Derek snarled in return, barely holding his uncle at bay. They were a blur of motion, Derek merely holding his uncle off, rarely lashing out with his own claws, like he didn’t want to kill him. Peter, one of the last living family members he had left.

He just wanted it to end.

And it did. Derek managed to dodge a particularly close swipe of Peter’s claws, eyes going wide as they slid past his throat with mere millimeters to spare. Stiles’ breath hitched in his throat as Derek caught it. The brawl paused briefly as his muscles screamed at the effort of holding Peter’s attack at bay. Taking advantage of the temporary lull, Peter reached up and rammed his other clawed hand into Derek’s abdomen with a snarl, twisting it upward as the claws sank into his flesh. Derek choked out a sharp, drawn gasp. The look on his face was of total surprise. Pain was etched across it, and underneath it all, Stiles could see something that looked briefly like sorrow. In his own heart, inky, suffocating sadness and terror began to bubble up and take over his mind. Stiles’ pulse went dead in his veins, replaced by the cold, empty panic of loss. He wanted to run to Derek, to save him, to hold him together, somehow, but his feet were rooted to the spot.

Scott, realizing it was now or never, quickly whipped around the pair, reached over Peter’s shoulder and wrapped a clawed hand around his throat, digging his fingers into the sides of his neck, small pinpricks of red beginning to form around the points of his claws.

Matching pools began to form in Derek’s shirt as his lifeblood poured from his hunched body. Stiles tried to yell, to scream, to move himself, but he couldn’t. Nothing would happen, he was trapped helplessly within himself. He watched in agony, straining every nerve he possibly could to try and do something, anything to get to Derek. To get someone: Allison, Isaac, Lydia, anyone to help him. They seemed to be unconcerned.

Oblivious to Stiles’ plight, Scott had a death-grip on Peter’s neck. He had tried to fight it, snarling violently at Scott, his eyes wide with some combination of panic and rage. He ripped his claws out of Derek, who staggered back and slumped to his knees with a dull thud. As if in response, Scott’s hand tightened, claws snicking even deeper into Peter’s flesh. In a flurry of motion, Scott slammed him into the floor by his neck, cracking the concrete angrily. Next to them, Derek was lying in a pool of his own blood.

The ex-alpha managed a choked laugh as Scott snarled over top him. Across the room, Stiles saw the exact moment when Derek’s life left his body behind. It gave one final shudder of panicked survival, and the light behind his seafoam-and-gold-flecked eyes faded out like a candle. Derek Hale died alone, on the cracked concrete floor of the loft, without his mate by his side. In the captive, darkening solitude of his own mind, Stiles keened. In his chest, his heart stopped fully, just long enough for him to hope to join his mate. Defiantly, it started beating again, aching from the sudden effort. His face grew hot as the tears pooled underneath his eyes, and he was powerless to stop them.

Through the wordless fury of his pain, Stiles could hear Peter cackling at Scott.

"What are you going to do? Kill me?” He waited briefly for a response to the obviously-rhetorical question. “Please, you don’t have it in you. You couldn’t even bring yourself to kill that ridiculous druid wench when you had the chance." Scott growled, but didn’t move to finish him off, even though Stiles willed him to, deep in the gathering darkness of his own mind.

"You’re right. I’m not going to kill you. But not because I don’t have the stomach for it. Because I knew someone who deserved to have that particular joy more than myself.”

Peter’s maniacal, hoarse laughter cut him off.  
"Who, Derek? What, just because he put up with me the longest, you think that gave him the right, hell the ability, to kill me? You saw what happened. You let him fight yet another battle for you. He failed. He was weak. Looks like you are going to have to do me yourself, Scotty-boy.”

Scott let the strength of his gaze penetrate Peter’s eyes, the mask of expressionless anger boring through the layers of psychosis and malicious intent. He would not be baited. He turned to the pack, still waiting by the opening, almost as if they had been frozen in place. “Isaac, could you help me hold him down?” The beta obliged, he and Scott each pinning one of Peter’s arms to the floor, all but slamming them through the already-cracking cement. Peter winced at the sudden sharp sensation of bones breaking.

"Lydia…" Scott drew out the question, looking up towards the strawberry-blonde human still playing with her knife in apparent apathy of the whole situation.

Peter’s eyes betrayed the desperate panic he felt as the high heeled shoes of Lydia Martin clicked across the floor towards the collection of werewolves. In spite of the horrible, aching pain that was slowly beginning to consume Stiles, the smallest twinge of warm satisfaction sparked in the darkness that was slowly engulfing his heart.

Across the room, Peter tried to rip himself free of the hold Scott had placed on him by way of his betas. “Would you mind finishing him off?”

She scoffed. “Like you even have to ask.” She flicked the edge of her knife, and the metallic din rang through the loft unbidden as she placed one foot firmly onto Peter’s chest, digging the heel in enough to elicit a grunt of discomfort from him. He froze. She looked down at him with a penetrating gaze that gave away nothing, and Stiles saw a small smile creep across her lips. Skin him alive, he thought.

“I’m afraid this might hurt.” She raised her knife. Peter’s eyes went wide.

—

Stiles woke up with a start and a sudden gasp. He flailed up into a sitting position, his heart pounding in his chest. Next to him, almost the same exact thing happened to the formerly comatose Derek, who also wolfed-out by the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat spiking drastically.

"What the fuck?" He snarled through his fangs as he realized that nobody was trying to kill him, or his mate, and that they were both at home, still in bed, with no bodily injuries of any kind. He let his claws slide back into his hands and his eyes shift back from their intense, wolfie blue. As he calmed down, he eyed Stiles warily, who was still breathing short, rough puffs of air and clutching at his chest like it was on fire.

Once Derek seemed to be sure that he was thoroughly de-clawed, he slid one solid arm around Stiles’ shoulder and nestled him against his chest, trying to soothe the palpitating heart he could still hear slamming away in his mate’s ribcage.

He whispered, “What did you see?” It had been common knowledge for a while (to Derek at least) that Stiles was not the only baseline human in the pack, that he had fledgling abilities of his own. Mostly, however, they involved being able to see the future. It was some kind of minor telepathic gift, one that Stiles couldn’t really control, at least not when his subconscious took over.

“Peter. I saw Peter,” Stiles said through ragged breaths. “He went after Scott. Then you. And you guys fought. Derek, he… he killed you, and I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t even move.”

Derek read the pain and fear on Stiles’ scent as he pulled him closer to his body. His skin was hot to the touch and beaded with small droplets of sweat. Stiles wrapped himself around it.

“Who else was there?”  
“The whole pack. Scott, you, me, Allison, Lydia, and Isaac.” His breaths were coming more evenly now, but his voice was still clogged with emotion, “they didn’t even try to save you. Neither did I.” He breathed in and out, voice breaking as he continued. “They- I was just kind of… frozen. Like I was trapped. I couldn’t move, couldn’t even speak. The pain, it was unbearable.”

Derek eyed him knowingly. “Did you see it happen?”

“Yes.”

“Like you actually saw me die?” The question was redundant.

“Yes. Light leaving eyes, lying in a pool of your own blood, everything,” Stiles breathed, agony echoing on his voice. Even recalling the moment when it happened made him wince.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I know what I saw.” Stiles responded, a little too angrily.

He hated that he was getting frustrated at his mate. But the questions had a purpose. While Stiles could see the future it was always just a version of it. He could never see past the choices someone might make in a particular situation. It was the one variable. Well, one of them. But if Peter suddenly decided that he wasn’t going to kill Derek, it wouldn’t happen some other way, like some kind of unavoidable roadblock; it just wouldn’t happen. Stiles’ visions were, by no means, absolute prophecies, however infallible they sometimes proved to be. They still had the biases of his own mind, and when some things happened, like the pack’s lack of interest in Derek dying in front of them, or Stiles inexplicably being frozen to the spot and unable to speak, it was almost as if it were more dream than oracular premonition.

Stiles knew it, but he still got flustered when Derek would try to piece together the whole picture, and try to decipher Stiles’ subconscious meanderings from the overall vision, especially when it felt so real. Mostly because he hated not knowing the parts that were, and those that weren’t. And he hated the time between each vision and the actual event. He usually spent it anxious, unable to focus, and he tended to snap at everyone as he replayed the sequence of events over and over again in his head, trying to figure it out.

Stiles felt Derek pull him somehow closer, the werewolf’s palm rubbing absentmindedly up and down his arm. He could hear Derek breathing, his heart beating in his chest with a strong, soothing rhythm, and the calm warmth of it began to wash over Stiles’ skin, filtering through his pores into his nerves, which slowly began to quiet their anxious natterings.

He took in a deep breath, and sighed it right back out, repeating it as his racing mind began to slow back down. Touching Derek always did something to ease his anxiety, especially after a vision like that. Whatever tactile power the werewolf had over his mate, it always worked.

Once he heard Stiles’ heartbeat fall back into its normal cadence, Derek leaned in and placed a soft kiss into the human’s mop of sleep-tousled hair. He gently pulled him back down to the pillows and curled around him, Stiles’ head resting perfectly in the crook of his neck.

In spite of himself, Stiles began to feel himself drifting off to sleep, lulled back into it by the steady undulation of Derek’s chest as he breathed.

As he drifted off, whispered words found their way into his ears. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” Then sleep took him.

—-

Fortunately, Stiles didn’t have to wait long for his vision to come true. It was less than a week before the familiar scene started to unfold. It happened so suddenly that he didn’t even realize it at first. He was walking up the spiral staircase of the loft to return some books to their shelf and grab the maps hat Scott had asked for when the steel door slammed open on its track. He paused to look, eyeing the commotion warily.

It was, of course, Peter. Ever the drama-wolf. Nobody else even batted an eye, though. Stiles continued upstairs and put away the books on the empty slots on the shelf. As he slid the last one home, the strange, nauseatingly tingly sensation of deja vu washed over him. The vision. His eyes went wide with the frantic realization. He needed to warn somebody. But how? There was no way to do it without tipping Peter off. Shit.

And cue the frantic, anxious pulse rate. Double shit. Stiles did some quick, deep breathing to lock it down, hoping that none of the pack heard it. He frantically searched for something useful that he could use to knock Peter out, should it come to that. Where is my bat? While he dug around the surprisingly-poorly-stocked upstairs balcony, he tried to listen to what was happening downstairs.

Scott was in the middle of a conversation with Derek and Allison. He and Derek had apparently picked up the trail of a weird smell on his way through the preserve the other night. He had followed it to the road, but lost it on the other side. He thought there was some connection between it and the recent murders and thought maybe Allison and her father knew what was going on.

Peter divested himself of his coat and ambled up to the table.

“So what’s going on here tonight?” He asked, probably idly curious. Next to him, Scott sniffed the air, a strange look appearing across his face.

It was Derek who answered. “Scott and I picked up a strange scent in the preserve. He thinks it’s connected to the murders that have been happening lately.”

“Really? Seems rather… tenuous, even for you, Scotty-boy.” Peter slapped him derisively on the back, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that the ‘boy’ was no longer such, hadn’t been for some time, actually, and regardless, Scott was still an alpha.

“What’s that smell?” Scott asked to the general group. He sniffed the air again, and Derek followed suit. They looked at each other, a silent mental connection being made.

“What are you talking about?” Peter asked, a slight crack in his voice. Scott narrowed his eyes. The answer was too ambiguous to be a lie of some kind.

“That smell that you brought with you. It’s the same one I tracked through the preserve.”

Stiles found the .22 rifle his dad had given him for his 18th birthday in the back of the closet. He found the shells he needed loaded them like the Sheriff had shown him, and carefully, quietly, cocked the gun, flicking the safety off. Barely a click. Perfect.

“That’s just a coincidence,” Peter chided, dismissing the statement with a wave of his hand. “I patrol the pack’s territory just like the rest of us.”

“True. But that smell…” Scott sniffed again, as if trying to remember something. “That smell was also coating everything at each of the crime scenes. Each one stank of it. So what, you were there too?”

Peter swallowed. He couldn’t answer without giving himself away. Stiles quietly slipped back towards the staircase, trying to be as quick as possible. He didn’t see the elder Hale sigh, but he heard it as he carefully descended the metal stairs.

“I guess you got me, then.” Even Stiles could hear the venom in his voice as he found the spot he was standing in during the dream. He hid the rifle behind his back.

Scott looked quickly at Derek and back to Peter. “Why did you do it?”

“I needed… A distraction. Something to… throw you off for a little while.” His confession was too easy. There was something else at work here.

“But why?” Allison asked, eyes shifting skeptically between Peter’s and Derek’s, her hands casually sitting in her pockets. Stiles knew her ready-for-a-fight-look. She was wearing it like armor now. Behind her, Isaac and Lydia approached cautiously, flanking her on either side. Stiles saw Peter’s claws come out before it happened.

The question went unanswered as he lunged for Scott, who dodged and whirled away in a blur of movement. When he turned to face Peter again, his normally brown eyes had shifted to red, and his face had twisted into his wolf’s.

Peter bared his fangs, and roared, letting the rest of his wolf break free.

Stiles couldn’t say when Peter’s shapeshifting abilities had come back, mostly because he had never really seen him wolf out since Derek killed him the first time. Regardless, Scott was now being stared down by a massive, black-haired werewolf, the same horror-movie-inspired one that bit him all those years ago in the preserve, minus the red eyes.

Peter flexed his claws, nails grating as they slid past each other, and Stiles cringed. Around Scott, the rest of the pack formed up, all wolfed out and growling.

The sound that emanated from Peter’s maw almost sounded like laughter. Then the beast spoke, words rasping over his tongue violently, barely understandable.

“So this is what’s happening?” He gestured at the collection of werewolves and humans surrounding Scott, “you’re throwing your pitiful little pack into the fray instead of fighting for yourself?”

Scott growled low in his throat, nearly taking Peter’s bait. Stiles willed him not to do it.

“No matter,” the wolf said, “I will still take them from you, right before I strip you of your unearned power.”

So that’s it. The puzzle pieces began to fall into place. Peter wanted to be an alpha again, and Scott was his only way of doing that. Stiles knew there was always something off about Derek’s uncle.

“Now who do I start with?” Peter’s grammar was not as good as it was in Stiles’ premonition. It was, for all intents and purposes, occurring almost exactly like it had before, with wordy, dramatic threats being levelled at each member of the pack. The differences were wildly evident, sure, but overall, the premise was largely unchanged.

Stiles was trying to sort out the details when the monstrous beast whirled around to regard him with his predatory blue eyes. Fear took his heart for its own.

“… Or I could just start with your little bromance here…” He licked his lips. “That would be really fun. I would finally have the chance to give Stiles the bite. You could see him turn, see him hold on just long enough for you to die. Then I would kill him too. I think I’ll start there…” He advanced on Stiles, but not before Derek vaulted over the table to block his path. He landed in a half-crouch, and looked up to roar into his uncle’s face.

“You’ll have to go through me then,” he snarled. The briefest sense of pride crept into Stiles’ chest, only to be instantly replaced by a familiar, suffocating panic as Peter levelled his gaze and growled again, bracing his claws on the floor, his teeth bared and hackles raised. He charged at Derek.

Stiles saw his opportunity. He whipped the gun out from behind his back and brought it up, feeling it slide perfectly into the crook of his shoulder. As the wooden stock made contact, he squinted through the scope, exhaled, and pulled the trigger as Peter’s head touched the crosshairs.

The sullen, hard thump that resulted from the werewolf’s body hitting the ground could have resulted from someone dropping an overly large sack of potatoes onto the floor.

It had a satisfying depth to it. Thank god the only bullets Stiles owned were filled with wolfsbane.

He dropped the gun to his side, still holding it, for fear that Peter wasn’t actually dead.

But the steaming bullet-holes confirmed it.

The pack was staring at him. Even Derek looked surprised. They really had no reason to be. Stiles was not going to give Peter even the slightest opportunity to hurt Derek. He had seen it once. Not again. Never again. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if his premonition had actually come true. His life without Derek would have been more painful than anything he had ever experienced.

They say losing part of your pack is like losing a limb, the pain is almost excruciating, sharp and empty; knowing that one second something was there, a heartbeat, a breath, a scent, and the next, nothing. Numbness.

But losing a mate, it’s like losing part of your soul. The pain is indescribable, and the darkness that takes over, that roots you to the spot, that stops your very heart from beating, it never really goes away. With each day it throbs, pulsing at the corner of your vision, radiating waves of dull, angry pain outward through your limbs.

Stiles couldn’t take that. He had felt it during his dream. Each painful moment that Derek had been lost to him had felt like a thousand years. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, he felt completely and utterly trapped. He would never feel it again, if he had anything to say about it.

He tried to suppress the sudden surge of emotion that poured from his chest into his nerves. Color began to rise on his cheeks, and his eyes began to glass over with hot liquid. His only defense was sarcasm. He fell in behind it as he spoke.

“What? It’s better than a bat.” Silence. Scott blinked at him as he laid the rifle down on the table. Derek laid a hand on his shoulder, grasp firm and knowing. There would be talking later. Stiles would need to be close to him for a while.

Behind them, Lydia was crouched over Peter’s corpse.

“Anybody mind if I turn him into a coat?”

**Author's Note:**

> Overall, I wrote it because I loved Peter’s S3 villainry so much that I thought he deserved not one, but two angry deaths. 
> 
> I figured it was acceptable. Not to mention, the idea of turning him into a coat made me laugh ridiculously hard (I would have turned him into a furry deep v-neck just because it seems more fitting). 
> 
> Don’t ask me to explain. But I think he deserves it. Anyway, thanks for reading! Don't forget to leave kudos and comments :)
> 
> Feel free to check out my tumblr @ watchthewolvesrun.tumblr.com
> 
> -SK


End file.
